


Alone In The Dark

by Heiouch



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Alteration of characters and plot, Artistic License, Comments greatly appreciated, Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, F/M, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Game Spoilers, Hurt/Comfort, I do plan to return to writing this story, I just can't say when, On Hiatus, Rating May Change, Recreation of an old story of mine, Swearing/Crude Language, TES Oblivion spoilers, Tags May Change, Tragedy, Warnings May Change, sorry everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-29
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:50:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8159501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiouch/pseuds/Heiouch
Summary: Unsatisfied with the life she leads, a young Dunmer goes out, prepared to meet the world and seek a fresh start. To do so, she must relinquish all ties to her former life, leaving behind family and home. The course of fate soon leads her to a new family, entirely different than the one she left. It is they who shape her new life into something entirely unexpected. They will teach her what it takes to embrace the darkest parts of life's woes, for one day she may have to face them alone.





	1. Blind In The Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this story of mine is a piece that I started a couple of years ago. I went on hiatus for the longest time and now, finally, I'm coming back to this story and rewriting it, making it better, and adding a bit more depth to it (I hope). Basically, this is just my version of the Oblivion Dark Brotherhood quest line. 
> 
> For those of you who have played: Yes, all the main plot points are the same, however, I have tweaked it in a few different areas and have kind of made the characters involved my own. You might notice a few differences in some of them. 
> 
> For those of you who have not played: MAJOR spoilers. You have been warned. 
> 
> Something I should also probably mention is that this story will not just cover events in Oblivion, but also Skyrim. But that's much, much later. So for now, this story will remain tagged only as an Oblivion fic. Enjoy.

The breeze of the evening was gently tangled in her long hair, soft and peaceful as it swept about the landscape of swaying trees. Light was fading fast as the sun stooped low, becoming unseen behind the canopy and descending further still towards the horizon of the land. She hadn’t noticed how quickly the sun’s light was vanishing, uncaring as it abandoned her to the encroaching darkness of swift night, until now as shadows began to distort and stretch, long, across the path she walked upon. Red eyes shifted toward the map unfolded in her hands, trying to catch the details of illustrations drawn there before light completely gave away to the shadows. The aged yellow of the parchment contrasted strangely to her fair skin of ashen blue as a finger traced over her marked route -- north to Chorrol. Chorrol was a city that could not compare to the beauty of her home town, Skingrad; in juxtaposition to that grand city aged in stone, Chorrol was quite quaint. She was told there was nothing remarkable about the city and that was precisely the reason she was drawn to it. There, her existence could lose all meaning. She would no longer be shackled to the identity of someone she was not, yet had spent twenty long years trying to become: Saviren Althanllin, born on the first day of Midyear to the burden of high expectations as the daughter of two respectable Dunmers, Jioba and Ralsei. Born high in the societal ranks of Skingrad to have her future painted on the canvas her parents had laid out for her was not the kind of life she wanted. It’s why she was here, traveling the road and fleeing in hopes to find the start of a new life where she could become what best suited her. Saviren would bear the burden of her own fate now, deciding for herself. Her parents would not think to look for her in Chorrol or any of the baser cities in the province. It would be the Imperial City that she would have to distance herself from.

Saviren’s possessions were few as she made her pilgrimage towards a destiny of her own making. She carried only her map and a bag that contained a supply of water and food and a few select outfits, none too fancy, as well as the paltry sum she had taken from her family’s store of wealth. Out of the few things she carried, there was one last item she had that was not taken out of necessity, but instead was an item of sentiment. Her father’s sword, with a blade too long and a hilt too wide for Saviren to ever hope to properly wield. It was her father that she would dearly miss, despite how Jioba’s strict rules may have weighed upon her. He was a mer with a kind heart, far different from how her mother had been. At least with this sword, strapped upon her back, she would have a fragment left of him to serve as remembrance. However, the fine crafted blade could do nothing for her now as night took reign of the lands, exposing Saviren to dangers far different from what few threats could be encountered in the day. Had she been quicker on her journey, she could have avoided this. Yet she was too overcome by her youth and submissive to the curiosity that her inexperience with the world entailed and she had delayed in long hours, exploring. She only came to regret her decision now as unfamiliar footsteps interrupted the rhythm of her own, dashing across the road. The fast paced steps seemed erratic and swift -- not of biped creatures. The figures were difficult to make out though she could tell that there were many and that they stooped low to the ground, crawling. For a moment, fear was so consuming of the girl’s wits that she stood paralyzed by her own sense of panic. Saviren watched with eyes wide and terrified as the group of shadows approached her. The sound of a snarl harshly convulsing from one of the creatures instilled a sense of urgency at last and Saviren finally acted in the only way she knew how. Lurching back, the young elf took off at a sprint in the opposite direction of the animals that prowled after her. A howling cry split the night time silence, identifying the creatures as wolves -- those of Cyrodiil were large and fierce and, in a pack, cunning. They hunted her, following closer in her steps now.

Had it not been for the light of the two moons, each swelled to their fullest, Saviren would have been sightless in the dark. Secunda, the smallest of the two satellites, was remarkably far brighter with its pure whitewash light than Masser’s red tinged glow. Saviren ran under its light, desperate to evade the wolves, but in the end, the light could not protect her. She made it only several strides before one wolf gained on her, matching her stride with ease. Behind her, it seized hold of her foot and she stumbled, pitching forward. Breaking the fall with her hands outstretched, she kept rest of her body from colliding with the ground as it seemed to surge upward to meet her. The impact jarred her slender arms while sharp stones of gravel dug into her tender palms and beneath her nails as she was dragged back by her leg. The leather of her boot kept her flesh guarded from the wolf’s teeth, but she felt the pressure of strong jaws bearing down to keep her secure as more of the pack rushed forward. 

Saviren tried to bring reason to the forefront of her mind, through the panic flooding any good sense she had, but no coherent thought came to her other than the repetitive chant of _I wish I could disappear._

Her hands clawed at the gravel road as she was dragged back, leg wrenched back and forth while the first wolf shook its head, trying to set its teeth deeper and make purchase through leather. Her screams did little for her and her struggles were in vain against the strength of her predator. Yet when death seemed certain, suddenly she was released and the surrounding wolves retreated, looking unexpectedly wary now. Saviren took the chance to scramble to her feet, and though she could hear the gravel crunching beneath where her foot should be, there was no longer anything visible of her own figure to be seen as she rose up. Even as she stood, the insistent instinct that commanded her to run was partially subdued by disbelief as she tried to look down at her own body, yet could see no trace. She looked for her hands, waving them before her face, invisible. There was nothing else to be seen of her form either, as she cast her gaze downward -- even the swell of her bust had vanished, though she had never been blessed with a large bosom to begin with. Eventually, her wits came to her and the mer backed away from the crowding wolves, all seeming just as confused as she was, sniffing the air curiously. Finally, Saviren broke away, running once more. Trying to focus her thoughts solely on the long strides she was making, the phenomenon went momentarily ignored now. 

The elf traveled easily under the cloak of inexplicable invisibility, going unseen and unnoticed. Saviren never slowed until her lungs ached for a chance at rest. She stooped, hands falling to her knees as she doubled over in labored breathing, and she noticed that the faintest outlines of her figure was returning, slowly shedding the unnatural cloak. Heaving a disbelieving sigh, she continued walking as her hands were raised again to be inspected. They were translucent, but not without a noticeable form and shape. Even now as she watched, color seemed to slowly ebb back into her flesh, filling the blank spaces. Then something else caught the Dunmer’s eye, seen through the faded image of her palm. She dropped her hands to her side, seeing a light that danced like a flame through the gaps between standing trees. It was a small speck of orange in the distance, likely a torch, and she stepped off the pathway to track it to the source. 

Saviren had fully shed the darkness that had veiled her by the time she came across a very plain looking farmhouse situated beside a barren field. Before its entrance spanned a shoddy porch, overflown with the light from the torch she’d spotted from far off. Saviren hovered near the torch, not unlike a moth so desperately pursuing a light’s effulgence, glad to find somewhere out of the darkness. It did not quell the brisk stimulant of fear running cold in her blood for long, however. Within the night, a chorus of howls had begun to cause a raucous din back within the forest. Saviren bolted to the door then and struck its surface with her knuckles, knocking unceasingly until a response was given. 

From within the cabin, the aged and weathered voice of a man called out. “What could’ya possibly want at this hour of night?” There was no time to give proper reply as the door swung open immediately after. In the faded light, Saviren could make out the form and features of an older man, looking quite irritable as he regarded her with a squinting brow. “What is it?” he croaked, brushing back tussled grey bangs from his eyes. He bore the accent of an Imperial native to this land. “What in the gods' names do ya want?” 

Not even the quiet spite in his eyes could be enough to undo the dread she held for the woods. Saviren was not afraid of this man, she only feared being turned away. Perhaps it was what made her bold enough to get straight to the point. “Forgive me, I need a place to stay for the night. The road is dangerous and I can’t continue my travels.” 

There was a moment of silence between them before a wheezing laugh disturbed the lull. “O'course it’s dangerous. It’s the stark middle of the night!" The old man stared at her in a wide-eyed, bewildered kind of way, as his voice raised to emphasize his point. "Any traveler would know better than to be out and about now. Are you completely senseless?” He gave a sigh and then stepped back from the doorway. “I’m not taking borders though, look elsewhere for the night.” The door slammed in her face, similar to how his mockery also had, striking hard at her pride yet also stirring her fear to further frenzy as hope began to die within her. 

She knocked again anyways, relenting to desperation. 

To his credit, the man returned. His brown eyes, though still impatiently scrutinizing, were laced with a quiet sadness that Saviren did not understand and had not noticed at first. “I told you to leave.”

“I know,” she breathed an anxious sigh. “But please listen to me…”

Her words were quickly cut short, interrupted by a brusque objection from the old Imperial. “No.” There was such finality in that small word. “I don’t have time to deal with your problems. I have my own troubles, y’know?” His voice was cold and hinted grief. Without so much as a farewell, he retreated back into the house again.

But Saviren moved quickly, surprising herself with the celerity she displayed in catching the door before it could latch again. From the sliver of opening left, she saw a pair of wide brown eyes staring at her as if she were mad. Perhaps she had, in her fear. She was, after all, babbling now. “Please. I need your help. You cannot leave me out here. I won't let you turn me away!” There was a countering force against the door, meant to shut her out once and for all, she imagined. With an outcry, Saviren slammed her fist against the door, the gray hue of her skin gone white around her knuckles. “Please!” Her red eyes were wide and entreating, welling up with tears. “How could you send another person to their death so thoughtlessly?” 

Suddenly the force that contested her own was gone and the door swung open easily from beneath her weight. The Dunmer lost her balance, tumbling forward past the threshold of the farmhouse. Her descent to the floor did not go smoothly, as her body collided with a small wooden table that was crammed next to the wall beside the door. Items upon the tabletop were scattered as the table itself fell onto its side with a loud clamor. She was sitting upright in an instant, embarrassed and ready with an apology on her lips. But the words of the old man were enough to silence her.

“You don’t know when to shut up, do ya?” He was standing over her, tangled locks of hoary hair dangling in his face. This man had a fury in his presence that was muted and layered beneath something sad and hollow. “You wanted in. Well now y’are.” 

“I just needed a--” 

“Not another word, I don’t wanna hear it from you!” He lurched suddenly, striking her with the back of his hand. It was a blow that landed over her defined, elvish brow, leaving a sharp pain blossoming over her eye. 

A yelp of surprise was stolen from her voice and she fell back against the floor again, an arm splayed out to the side. Her hand fell over something that was smooth and cold to the touch, yet pressed into her grip easily; readily. Sparing a quick glance, Saviren saw that it was a tiny silver blade, so small that it could have been anything as insignificant as a letter opener or a cheese cutter. But it was sharp at the tip and had a slight edge, which made it useful enough. She quickly got to her knees, kneeling before the old man as it seemed he was ready to throw another punch. But Saviren was not afraid of this man, she only feared being turned away. This much was still true, even now as her wide crimson gaze was overcome with tears. The fear was not of him. Not when he crumbled so easily as the blade drove into his thigh. Quickly, he had fallen to one knee, kneeling with her now as Saviren pulled the tiny knife from where it had embedded into muscle. It did not come loose quite so easily, but she tugged persistently, freeing it along with a wail from the man. 

She had the blade raised, extended outward to point perilously at the Imperial. He made an attempt to grab her wrists, but she put an end to the advance by slicing open the face of his palm. “Don’t touch me," she screamed in warning. 

When the man winced away, he held up his uninjured hand in submission while pressing his bloody palm to his thigh where the two wounds would weep together, dripping crimson onto the floor. “I yield,” he stated hastily. His brown eyes were brimming with a look of surprise and horror. “I fear in my old age, I’m not the warrior I once was. You win, lass.” 

Clearly, the man was shaken and it certainly did make him look frail in his age, the way his body sagged loosely and the wrinkles above his brow folded when he watched her warily. Slowly, he seemed to be drawing himself up to his feet, trying to rise unsteadily upon his freshly injured leg, all while still holding up his hand as if to beseech her. It was a retreat. Saviren watched him for a few seconds of fleeting stillness. Her red eyes were still wide as they gazed up at him. And then, in a swift moment, she was standing quicker than he was able, blade fisted in her hands as she reached out and plunged the small strip of metal into the old man’s throat. His blood sluiced from where the knife had dug in, covering her hand in deep red. Saviren stepped back when it began to sputter from his mouth, too. His lips trembled with unformed words as he tasted his own blood on his tongue. Their expressions mirrored each other’s perfectly; eyes wide and mouth agape. Neither the farmer or the elf seemed to believe what was happening now. 

The old man eventually dropped to the ground, never having made it completely to his feet before the blade had done him in. His blood welled beneath him, traversing freely along the hard stone floor. Saviren stared, deeply shocked, for an immeasurable stretch of the night. When she had acted, it had been without thinking, without feeling. Her actions had been swift and decisive, yet there had been no thought out plan preceding her decision to kill. When her surprise wore off, Saviren wept, because somewhere in her mind she knew that’s what she ought to do in this kind of situation. But the fears and doubts never reached deep down. Regret hardly touched her, giving her little regard. Eventually her tears dried and she broke free from her stance standing beside the fallen man. Instinct had her rushing to slam shut the door and shutter the windows as the realization of her guilt sunk in and reminded her how exposed the whole scene had been with the door blatantly ajar during the scuffle she'd had with the farmer. 

At first, she paced, glancing at the body that lay thrown out across the floor. It was possible that no one had witnessed the murder, she reasoned with herself. The farmhouse was remotely located away from any other buildings, as far as she had seen and at this time of night, it would be unlikely that anyone else was out here, away from most civilization. Still, she found herself waiting for a knock at the door or a shout from a guard calling for her arrest. None of these things ever came. Everything was strangely peaceful. Even the wolves had ceased their cries in the distance. Perhaps they too, had made a kill to finally sate their appetite. Eventually, the Dunmer began to accept the cold composure that would wash over her to quiet her mind’s nervous chatter. She walked over to a bed -- one of three within the house -- and let the pack she carried upon her shoulders drop onto the foot of it and her father’s sword was shrugged off from her back as well. On the night stand beside the bed, she placed the small blade she’d used to slay the old man. She disrobed quickly from the simple dress she wore now and bunched the fabric in her bloodied hands, using it to wipe away the mess. After she was dressed in a new outfit fetched from her pack, Saviren was feeling much better. Cleaner. Tossing her previous outfit into the hearth to burn away, she was beginning to regain some semblance of normalcy now. Except there still remained the matter of the corpse on the floor. All she could think to do for the matter was to strip one of the other two beds crowding the room and drape the coverings over the dead man. It didn’t look quite right, and certainly was not all that discrete, but it’s not as if she would be having company over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random fun fact: Saviren's last name was created by merging and altering two words of two different languages. The word "Alththani" means "second" in Arabic and the word "Lalin" means "moon" in Haitian Creole. So her name, Althanllin (all-thahn-lin) roughly means Secunda, the second moon in the TES Universe. Her family crest is Secunda at its fullest with a waning crescent of Masser in the background.


	2. Company Came

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Your killing has been observed by forces unknown..." Saviren discovers that there is, in fact, a witness to the murder of the old farmer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well it certainly took forever to get this chapter out, huh? I started a new job, and let me tell you, it's been hectic. Hopefully now that things are settled, updates will come more consistently and quickly. But I'll be honest with you, I'm writing this story for myself more than for anyone else so I'm not going to force myself into any kind of hurry. Writing becomes a chore when that happens, and I just want to enjoy creating this story. It's been a project of mine for a long while and deserves to be well written. 
> 
> Thank you to any of you who do stick around to read and have patience for waiting for my updates.

At some point, sleep had found her, dragging her down deep to rest for the remaining hours of night. She had valid reason to bear exhaustion after the events that had occurred since imparting on a wayward journey. By the time Saviren finally stirred from her sleep, the concerns of last night were not forgotten, however.

The fire had collapsed into dead ashes and coals. The air carried a subtle, acrid fragrance of smoke, only faint as it lingered about the small, one-room house. Wisps of it could be seen, caught in the slim rays of light that managed to slip by the window shutters. Quickly, Saviren sat upright. How late had she slept in? She couldn’t stay here for long, not when she was lodging with a corpse. Who knew when any number of people might notice the old man’s absence or an untimely visitor may come calling? She sighed, pressing the heel of her hands to her eyes, trying to rid them of the burden of sleep’s weight. It was time to act; the quicker the better. If things had gone along with her plans, she would have been far from the farmhouse in a hurry. But things had not gone according any plan since she left Skingrad.

Her bag was still packed and she already wore a change of fresh clothes, meaning she was fit for travel the instant she stepped out of bed. The only thing standing in her way was the man leaning against the wall, just beside the front door. 

Black robes hung from his form, melting seamlessly into the dark hues of shadows that were being cast about the farmhouse, doing well to hide him until now as Saviren was hurrying to make an exit. She was about to retrieve her father’s sword from where it rested against the bedpost when she noticed the strange figure. The sudden chill of shock was enough to strike her still, frozen in an awkward position as her arm remained extended, reaching out for Jioba’s blade, yet she did not possess the courage to seize it now. This man’s face was screened by darkness draping over his features from beneath the hem of a hood, yet she could feel the way his eyes met hers as she stared at him. 

It was a surprise when the silence was breached by the sound of a delicate chuckle, tittering quietly from under the tall man’s hood. “You sleep rather soundly for a murderer,” drawled the stranger. Saviren noticed the slightest shake of his head. “Yet you lack a vital sense of perception. I thought it possible that you might walk right out the door without paying me any notice at all.”

Saviren slowly rose, rigidly drawing herself upright until she was standing, positioned so close to the sword at her bedside. Her fingers twitched, wishing to wield it, yet she stayed her hand. Her eyes darted down along the strange man’s black clad figure, noticing the sterling hilt of the his own sword sheathed at his side. He had yet to reach for it. In fact, the stranger appeared quite content to remain lounging against the wall for the moment as he observed her, arms crossed and completely relaxed. Saviren wished she could share even a portion of his confidence, but she was terrified, feeling cornered and vulnerable with the man guarding her only exit. She should be armed, she knew it. Yet she refused to grab hold of her father’s sword, knowing it to be too heavy for her to use as a suitable defense against this man.   
Silence had stretched out between the two of them, hanging heavily within the tense atmosphere of their shared space. Saviren lacked any suitable words to speak as an offering of appeasement to her menacing visitor, so she kept quiet, his remark going unanswered. Quiet she may have been on the outside, yet within was a clamour of panicked thoughts. The stranger seemed to understand that her silence implied that the next move was his to take. Pushing off the wall that he had been leaning on, he stepped forward. One hand extended before him theatrically, wrist flicking as he suddenly offer his hand with a kind of flourish. Before he had another chance to speak, however, Saviren bolted, retreating a pace back to the table where she had laid down the small knife she had used against the farmer last night. She clutched the handle and drew the small blade upward, displaying the weapon to the dark cloaked man. 

There was a brief stagger of hesitation in his step and Saviren thought, with satisfaction, that he would now think it better to keep his distance. But then she heard his laughter as his offered hand dropped. “That little cutter may have been enough to bleed a feeble old man dry,” the stranger’s voice shifted from a tone of amusement to something more serious. “But, I assure you, it will not suffice to bring me down.” Saviren caught the flickering movement of dark eyes eyes, cast sidelong in a glance, beneath the hem of his hood. Her own eyes followed the stranger’s gaze, settling on her father’s sword where she had left it. The stranger’s voice returned, this time sounding quite amused again -- an amusement that was at the expense of her dignity, if the man’s sudden smirk told her anything. “Why don’t you instead draw the sword against me?”

The elf’s red eyes would flash, glancing again toward the sword in considerate regard. The blade was long and cruelly sharp, she knew, as her father would hone it with care each day. Its edge could cleave and rend flesh easily. The issue at hand was not the weapon’s ability, but the wielder’s. Saviren knew of the sword’s weight; it was no simple burden to bear, let alone swing. Yet a twinge of pride, so distinctly keen to her Dunmeri blood and of her own family line, had her drawn to the challenge against all better judgement. And from within, a strange desire coiled in her heart’s depth -- a recount of the night prior looping in her mind; that of the sight of blood running across the stone floor. She wondered if she could draw this man’s blood from generous veins before he could do so to her. It was a game of sorts that this stranger offered. One with incredibly high stakes. Yet if she were fated to die anyway, would it not be better to do it while fighting for the chance of life instead of cowering and awaiting its end?

Saviren gave a slight nod, hesitantly. Her first step was not confident, more cautious and small as she advanced toward the sword again. All the while, she kept a mindful gaze upon the stranger. She half expected that he would not truly give her the chance to claim the weapon before coming for her. He remained perfectly still, however, even as Saviren bent down to grab hold of the sword, taking it by the hilt and allowing gravity to discard the sheath. The weapon was designed to be held with one hand so it could be paired with a shield. Saviren had to grasp its hilt with both of her hands in order to be able to raise the blade high. It must have been such a pathetic display. Her dark skin was flush at her cheeks just picturing how she must appear in the eyes of the man before her. 

The stranger, to his credit, did not comment. Instead, he merely reacted by drawing his own weapon from where it hung at his left hip in its leather scabbard. It was a finely crafted silver shortsword, smaller and more lithe than the one Saviren struggled to hold in a poorly mimicked stance of what she had seen Jioba practice at home. When the silver blade was set loose, the hooded man twirled it repetitively at his side for a moment, letting the sword dance within his steady grip. He crossed the sword over into his other hand as it arced before him in another graceful sweep. Even with his weapon wielded in his off hand, Saviren was left with no illusions that she may stand a chance against this swordsman. The contrast of skill could not have been more defined. Finally, the man’s smirk returned. “Let the first move be yours. Do begin whenever you are ready.” 

His little show made her reconsider her opinions on cowering. She hadn’t any clue where to start, but she knew as soon as she did it would only be the initiation to her own death. The tremors that traveled down her arms, causing the extending sword to waver as well, were not entirely due to the strain of holding up such an unfamiliar weight. Saviren was frightened and her fear was getting the best of her once more. She could feel its paralysis creep into her and hold her fast. 

“I may be a courteous man, but a patient one, I am not.” The hooded stranger gave a reprimanding click of his tongue. “You’re letting your fear consume you. If you will not act now, then I suppose I must force your hand. Think fast or die.” His command was the last warning he gave before lunging forward, swinging his sword in a side-sweeping arc that would surely slash through her midsection. 

In the panic of the moment, Saviren was able to tilt her sword in a sudden and desperate reaction to the danger. The impact of his blade against hers was jarring, rattling her arms as the loud cry of two metals meeting sounded. The swords remained crossed momentarily, no second advance following the first. 

“Good, your reflexes are decent for your lack of talent with a blade.” The man’s words sounded like a remark a teacher would give to his student, not how a killer would address their victim. It was confusing to watch him treat this encounter with such nonchalance. “You won’t be able to keep up for long, however, while wielding a sword too large for you. Even if I continue to go easy on you.” As their blades remained interlocked, the man suddenly slide his blade along hers and rotated his wrist, wrenching Jioba’s sword free from Saviren’s trembling hands easily in a simple disarming move. With his free hand, the man caught the newly claimed sword by its hilt and raised it before his hooded face to appraise the weapon’s make. Saviren gave an exclamation of protest, yet thought better of it than to actually try to reclaim the blade. 

“Where did you obtain a weapon such as this, if I may inquire? It’s lovely, but it does not suit you in the least.” In favor of inspecting the Dunmer’s sword, he had returned his own to its sheath. Delicately, the flat of Jioba’s blade was rested in the palm of his free hand as the other kept hold of the hilt. “Ah… I know this crest.” 

The sword was a custom weapon that her father had commissioned from Skingrad’s finest blacksmith and the Althanllin family crest had been carefully etched into the rain guard of the sword. It dipicted the two moons -- Secunda at her fullest and Masser as little more the a crescent’s sliver behind the smaller sphere. She was not surprised that the stranger recognized it, as her family was well renowned. 

“Althanllin, family of the second moon. A prominent family from Skingrad.” His head raised and Saviren would guess that his eyes were upon her now. “I hear their daughter has gone missing. I wonder if she will ever return home...” 

The way his voice trailed off thoughtfully, as if he were quietly musing something unbeknownst to Saviren, unsettled her. She swallowed thickly. Was his plan to kill her and then leave her here to rot beside the farmer in this unknown little shack? Perhaps that was what she truly deserved, after all. With an unsteady sigh, she raised her hands to rub her temple where a headache was beginning to form from all the stress, yet she winced slightly as her fingers touched the bruise she’d received from the farmer last night. “If you’re going to kill me, could you do it now? I’m growing tired of these games you play.” The stranger’s responding laughter made her look up, glaring. 

“So you do speak. Oh no, I’m not here to kill you, Saviren Athanllin.” He chuckled again, as if it were absurd for her to think a strange man cloaked in black, who had broken into the place where she slept, would want to murder her. “If I were, I would not have wasted so much of my time with niceties and games, as you so call them. I would have merely severed your pretty neck as you slept. Here,” he suddenly offered to return her father’s sword to her, holding out the hilt to her, almost courteously. “I would not part such a valued heirloom from its rightful family. However, I believe I have a weapon that would be a better fit for you.”

Saviren accepted the sword, rather stunned to have it returned. She grasped the hilt tightly, as if afraid to lose this piece of her father again. She would let the tip of the blade rest on the floor and fold her hands over the top of the pommel as she watched the strange man before her. He was busy unfastening a pouch tied to his belt. From it, a long dagger was retrieved, adorned in a dark stained leather sheath. He pulled the knife loose to offer her a look. From the deep onyx color of its blade, she could tell it was crafted from ebony -- a rare metal -- while also finely decorated with gold details. It was a single edged blade that curved like a fang and its grip was protected by a hooked guard. “This is the blade of woe. She was born from the forge’s fires only days ago and has yet to taste blood.”

The weapon was beautiful, elegant, and quite the prize to behold. Yet Saviren did not reach out to take it. She stood very still, dark eyes of rose hue set upon the hooded figure. She had only one word for him, a simple question. “Why?”

“Ah, forgive me, I suppose an introduction is long overdue... It would explain much for you.” The dark cloaked man reached up to pull back his hood, allowing it to settle over his shoulder in folds. As his face was revealed to her, she took in his features. A broad jaw, fine lips, an aquiline nose, and dark hair that was slicked back away from his face, running long into a tied up tail that ended just past his shoulders. But it was his eyes that were most captivating and charming. Gentle brown in color and slightly tinged by a softer hue like honey, they were alert, with a glint of defined intelligence, yet also harboring a thirst to learn more than he already knew. “I am Lucien Lachance, a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood.”


	3. You've Heard Our Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with many questions and a challenging decision, Saviren has much to think about after an unforgettable encounter with Speaker Lachance.

One thing that quickly became apparent was that Lucien greatly loved to converse, which was wholly suitable for a man of his aptly given title. A Speaker he most certainly was, and words flowed from his tongue fluently, painting everything he spoke in its own artful depiction. Speech was his craft and Lucien had mastered it entirely. 

Saviren found herself easily baited by the things he spoke of. He told her about the culture and lifestyle of the Dark Brotherhood. It was a ruthless way of living, based off of sport and gain from taking away life. But the Brotherhood ran deeper than just that. Bound by family ties and a deep devotion to ritual, they were a group committed to the endeavors of strength and skill as much as they were committed to each other. Of course, she had heard of them before. Everyone had at one time or another, be it through rumor or whisper. They were notorious, and yet also so exclusively unknown. Often, they were even believed to be nothing more than myth. But here before her stood an agent of the assassins’ guild to be the testament of their existence. When she asked for greater details, Lucien readily continued. He proceeded to speak most ardently of two figures. The Night Mother and Sithis.

“The Brotherhood is reverent to them,” he explained. “The Night Mother is our matron and just as she has done, we offer ourselves as servants to Sithis.” 

Saviren processed his words slowly, through careful thought. Everything that this man had to say was perplexing and intriguing, though it seemed to leave her with more questions that she first began with. “But who are they?” Her eyes looked to him, entreating.

Despite his passion of speech, Lucien was never carelessly disclosing; always quite aware of what information he was willing to offer freely and keenly withholding of secrets. Often, his answers would tell a great deal about very little, leaving much unsaid and confidential. “You are already familiar with Sithis. He is the enigma of the darkest thoughts and cruelest desires we all have tucked away within. And he knows a great deal about you; more than you likely know about yourself. The Night Mother sent me to find you and she acts solely for the will of Sithis.”

“Why were you sent? What does she want from me?” There was an edge of desperation to the Dunmer’s voice, pleading for a chance of understanding. 

“I’ve come to you to offer more than just this blade as a gift. I extend to you an invitation to embrace what you are. Or, at the very least, what you could be.” The Imperial took a step toward her and this time Saviren did not shy quickly away. She was raptly attentive to this man, drawn in and committed fully to hear his words. Fear had ebbed away each moment she spent engaged with him. As Lucien continued, the words to follow were confident. “Join the Dark Brotherhood, become part of our Family. This is the Night Mother’s desire and Sithis’ will.” 

Saviren was in disbelief, face expressive of her surprise and confusion. Slowly, the young elf settled onto the bed behind her, taking a seat and resting Jioba’s sword against the bedpost once more. Lucien watched her, sensing her doubt. His eyes were acutely assessing of her in that moment. “You’ve fled the home of your childhood and now work to sever what binds you to your old life, do you not?” It may have been posed to her as a question, but it was easily to be taken as a statement of fact. Lucien knew what he said to be true. “The Brotherhood could be your new beginning.”

A moment passed in silence, and for once Lucien allowed the quiet to expand. Saviren could not even begin to collect her thoughts and gave a gentle sigh. “If I were to join,” surely, Lucien would notice how she carefully avoided giving a definite answer. “How would I go about doing so?”

“Prove again that you are capable of walking our path. A killing is not always so easily duplicated. Not for some.” He paused, looking toward the outline of the corpse overlaid with wool blankets. It had gone ignored for the majority of their conversation. Saviren followed his gaze, thoughtfully considering the dead man as Lucien resumed his speech. “The first murder is usually about motive, perhaps even necessity. Despite that, there’s often regret and horror experienced after such an act. It’s because of this, that the second time of taking another’s life will be the hardest. Returning to that source of guilt and fear and finding the ability within oneself to repeat the process is not simple for most. If you can make your second kill, it will all become easier after that.” 

Saviren’s hands fidgeted in her lap. Another kill. Like most other things Lucien said, this revelation was a source of more questions. She didn’t bother asking any more. There was already so much to consider and she was beginning to grow restless. The Dunmer made no attempt to hide her look of indecisiveness from Lucien, not that she likely could have even if she tried to conceal such things from the attentive eyes of the Imperial man. 

Lucien supplied her with a way out, merely dismissing the conflict he saw written upon the Dunmer’s expression. “I don’t require an answer from you now,” he stated plainly, though Saviren wondered if the look of disinterest to pass over his features was born from a touch of disappointment. “Think on my offer and if you should decide that it interests you, simply do as I instruct: On the Green Road to the north of Bravil lies the Inn of Ill Omen. There you can find a man named Rufio. Kill him, and your initiation into the Dark Brotherhood will be complete. Do this, and I will return to deliver you to your new Family.” He gave a smile that was far too pleasant for a man so deeply delved within the business of death. “And if not, this will be farewell for you and I. I don’t think we shall meet again otherwise.” His eyes moved, quick, along her form, as if a thought he had not yet given proper consideration to crossed his mind. “Unless, by an unfortunate turn of your fate, it is called of me to collect your head.” 

He did not laugh, nor did Saviren, but Saviren wanted to believe it was a joke. 

Again, Lucien held out the blade of woe to her in offering and this time it was accepted. “You may keep this, regardless of what you decide to do.” Saviren thanked him, as it seemed only sensible to display courtesy to a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood. While she strapped her newly acquired weapon to her hip, Lucien pulled his hood up above his head once more before grasping the door’s handle. He did not immediately see himself out of the house, but instead turned to the young elf once more. “I do hope we’ll meet again soon.” 

He was gone in an instant, suddenly vanishing from her sight. Saviren, momentarily stricken by her surprise, let her mouth drop open in a silent, gaping way. Perhaps she had wanted to call out to the man, but her voice was crippled from shock. She moved to the door, laying a hand against the frame as she peered out to the world beyond the threshold, but there was no one to be seen. Lucien Lachance continued to prove himself to be someone of many great surprises, though this stunt of his was not entirely unfamiliar to the Dark Elf. It reminded her of last night, when she had undergone similar effects, touched by the guise of invisibility. Though she had not known how to control it as Lucien could. Of course, more questions plagued her now than ever. She would dwell on them in further consideration later, once she was on the road traveling again and a safe distance away from this place. For now, she concentrated on gathering her things and making a quick exit. 

The sun was now high in its arc above Nirn and the sky was clear, making for a bright day. Instead of going down the walkway that converged with the main road, Saviren went around to the back of the old farmhouse to cut across the field and make a more discreet exit. 

The old rows of tilled earth in the crop field were dry and scarred by deep rifts resulting from a lack of water. The ground was parched and therefore barren with only the shriveled remains of sun scorched vegetation left to suggest of the neglect that the old farm had endured in recent months. The vast expanse of empty space that the field left in the vivid green of the surrounding lands was hideous and was made all the more dreary of a sight by the two headstones to be seen rooted in the lifeless earth. Saviren passed by them on her way and took notice of the inscriptions chiseled into the smooth faces of stone. 

_Rallus Odiil_  
First Seed 27, 3E408 - Mid-Year 7, 3E433  
Beloved son 

_Antus Odiil_  
Last Seed 15, 3E411 - Mid-Year 7, 3E433  
Beloved son 

The Dark Elf didn’t bother to stop in order to contemplate the quiet graves or the two men buried beneath them but she did not fail to notice little details of interest, such as how the two men were likely to have been brothers and had shared the same date of death, which was only a week prior from today. And so explained the sorrow she had sensed coming from the old farmer when she discovered him last night. He had been shunning the world as he holed away in the confinement of his home, mourning for two sons not long departed from the world. 

In perhaps a very inappropriate reaction, Saviren laughed. Not from any real amusement, but in a bitter kind of way when she realized that the man’s aversion to visitors that night had been reasonable after all. And in the end, she had killed him with no thought of the injustice of it. At the time, her needs had been greater and she had done what she had to, she reasoned, rather coldly excusing her actions. And now, perchance, the old man could reunite with his sons in death. If you believed in that sort of thing. 

However, she would not be supplied with an excuse for the next murder, if she ever did accept Lucien’s offer. The only reason for another life to come to an end by her hand would be if Saviren willfully decided that it was a price worth paying in order to further her own agenda. There was much to be gained, but great risk was the accompaniment to this chance at a new beginning that had been offered to her. Saviren had never taken risks in all of the years of her life spent under the instruction of her parents. And there was much more to be assessed than just the potential risks. Her thoughts were also occupied by musings of the Dark Brotherhood, what she had been told of them, and the man that revealed all of it to her. 

There was great need for answers, but what remained to be determined was if Saviren was able to do what was necessary in order to obtain them. For now, she would travel to the inn that Lucien told her of and plan on nothing more than that. Just because she went there did not mean she would have to kill the man, should she decide against it in the end and she would be given plenty of time to contemplate her desires during her travels. Saviren retrieved her map from her pack to inspect the distance she would be trekking and guessed that it would take her another full day on the road. Though that was only if she returned the way she had come, along the main road stretching out from Skingrad. That wasn’t going to happen, of course. Instead, she’d have to head east for the shores of Lake Rumare and follow the road around the great lake until she reached the south-bound Green Road that Lucien had mentioned. With this route, her travel time would nearly be doubled, giving her plenty of time to reconsider everything about her plan. A part of her -- her better judgement, perhaps -- was hopeful that she would have long since talked herself out of all this Dark Brotherhood nonsense before she ever even reached the inn. But something within her heart had already latched onto the idea that Lucien had proposed, much like a seed taking root in deep soil. And perhaps she had never really had the choice to resist at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter wasn't all that eventful, but I really did enjoy digging into Lucien's character a bit and playing around with some dialogue for him. Though really, I feel like I've barely scratched the surface for his character. I hope my portrayal of him will do him justice throughout the rest of the story. 
> 
> *Side notes:  
> So the old man that Saviren killed was Valus Odiil. I never liked his character in the game, which is why I thought it might be fun to include him in the story as Saviren's victim. 
> 
> Also, those of you who have played the Dark Brotherhood questline will have noticed that the first target (Rufio) is the same. This won't be the case for the rest of the story though, I don't intend to just copy the entire plot for what it was, in game. Because what fun would that be?


	4. What Lies Beneath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seeking out the Inn of Ill Omen was not a difficult task. Finding her target proves to be a bit more of a challenge. Harder still, is patiently dealing with undesirable company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took a while to get this chapter out. I won't make excuses but here you go, finally.
> 
> *Side notes:  
> I have decided to remove the apostrophe out of Saviren's last name (went back and edited previous chapters to fix this), simply because it didn't seem to comply with the style of Dunmeri names. And while I don't really know if Althanllin is a very lore-friendly Dunmer name to begin with, too bad.

When she had been told to seek out an inn, Saviren imagined that it would be a place similar to the bed and breakfasts found all around Skingrad: somewhere that offered a warm hearth, good meals, and private rooms. Arriving at the Inn of Ill Omen, the Dunmer met with great disappointment. From the outside, the building looked very plain and of unstable structure. There was no painted finish, only the color of raw timber planks. There were gaps between the wooden slats of siding where rusted nails could no longer support the weight of the boards fully. And the inside was not the least bit more charming. There was a dank kind of smell lingering within when Saviren shuffled through the front entrance way. Other than the bleak evening sunshine that followed behind her when she opened the door, the only lighting available came from a few misshapen candle stubs that had left pools of wax on the counter tops and tables. The windows were all closed up.

At first, there appeared to be no one here at all. Not even the check in counter was occupied by any staff. Saviren had completely overlooked the Redguard woman seated in the corner of the room until a grousing voice called out. 

“Close the door, too bright.” Even in the low light, the woman would squint and scowl and eventually lower her head into her hands, rubbing at her eyes.

Saviren’s dark eyes scanned over the other woman while she carefully pushed the door shut, muttering an apology. There was a moment of silence between them and the Redguard took this as an opportunity to pick up a mug from the table and take one last swig from the dregs of whatever remnants had been inside. She then let the mug topple onto the table, not bothering to right it when it clattered onto its side, beginning to drip amber fluid. 

“Good to see a new face. We don’t get many visitors around here,” the Redguard stated with a slur. Her words were often stuttered by tiny hiccups. 

Saviren was not surprised by her statement. This inn was not a place for anyone of a sound mind. She found herself wondering how a place such as this even stayed in business. She did her best to offer some form of a smile before she spoke. “Are you the proprietor of the inn?” 

The response was delivered with a boisterous laugh that startled Saviren when it split the quiet atmosphere with its noise. “The what?” Her laughter bubbled with the sound of more hiccups. “I’m Minerva! Really I’m nobody really...” 

Saviren’s jaw set in frustration, but her lips remained turned up in a persistent false smile. She tried again, talking slower and avoiding big words that the Redguard couldn’t seem to understand. One too many drinks seemed to have done this one in. “Who owns this place?” She gestured around her, hoping it would help Minerva understand. 

“Oh that’s Manheim,” was Minerva’s chipper response. 

That was a Nord name if Saviren had ever heard one. 

Minerva was smiling now as she spoke of Manheim. “He’s down in the cellar fetching me some more ale. He knows how to treat a girl, yes he does.” She laughed again; not as loud this time, but still grating on an elf’s sensitive ears.

Manheim made his appearance after, almost as if on cue, with an entire keg of ale preceding him up a ladder and through the cellar door to Saviren’s left as the Nord hefted it above his head. Saviren stepped away to avoid being caught in a small space with a big man and barrel, making her way toward the center of the room. The Nord’s attention was upon her in an instant. 

“Oh! Greetings, Dark Elf!” His voice was big like his presence, filling the room. He gave her a once over, inspecting her curiously. It made Saviren nervous; she wasn’t sure how far from Skingrad her family’s prominence would stretch. Lucky for her, this Nord -- or likely any Nord for that matter -- could not discern an Althanllin from a common mer and this was something that both relieved and insulted her to a degree. “Who might you be? You’re not looking to rent a room, are you?” He sounded entirely dubious, yet the question was not spoken without a scrap of hope.

Saviren gave a sigh, but nodded. “Actually I am. Are there any available?”

To that, the Nord smiled broadly and bent to hoist the barrel of ale up onto one large shoulder. “Yes, yes. Follow me to the counter and I’ll check you in.”

Minerva came staggering over to relocate herself closer to the new offering of ale, settling onto one of the bar stools next to Saviren as the Dunmer took a seat. The Redguard and Nord talked amiably while drinks were poured and the visitors’ log book was retrieved from behind the counter. It had collected a fine layer of dust, which Manheim smeared away with his massive hand before flipping the cover open. 

“I’ll just need to know your name and five septims for renting the room,” Manheim explained, looking up at her expectantly as he dipped a quill into ink. 

Saviren froze. The gold was no problem, handing over her identity was. She fumbled through her bag to find the coins she needed, hoping to give herself enough time to think of a name she could offer the Nord. Five septims hit the counter with soft clinks before she could think of something. Inwardly, she berated herself for not thinking these kind of things through ahead of time. Manheim was staring at her, gathering the coins into his hand as he waited.

“My name.. is Nammu.” she said, dearly hoping that neither Manheim or Minerva knew any Dunmeri. It was unlikely, but Saviren was still nervous, given her luck as of late.

“Good to meet you, Nammu. I’m Minerva,” Minerva said happily, interrupting Saviren’s worries.

Manheim simply scribbled down the offered name, not seeming to care all that much since he had already been paid. “Alright, Ms. Nammu! Your room is up the stairs, first door to the left.”

“Right next to my room,” Minerva slurred. “Guess this makes us neighbors.” 

“Guess so,” was Saviren’s only response as she glanced around the bar again. When Manheim put out a mug for her and went to pour a drink, she raised her hand dismissively. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.” She had never had more than a few sips of wine in her lifetime, yet Saviren liked to think she was still refined in her tastes. The cheap ale this inn offered was not even remotely tempting, especially if the taste was to be anything like the smell. Minerva’s breath reeked of the drink.

Saviren had stayed in the bar for a while after her arrival, intending to keep surveillance on the main floor in order to observe the comings and goings of anyone around. Her first goal was simply to find Rufio, then from there a plan could be constructed. Nothing eventful ever came of her watch though, as there were no others around to be seen aside from Manheim and Minerva. The front door never opened, no one ever came down from the second floor. Saviren suspected there was little this inn had to offer other than its drinks and rooms. Perhaps Rufio had already turned in for the night and gone up into his room. Saviren decided she would do the same, as she already tired of being in the presence of the Nord and Redguard. It would give her an excuse to go snooping upstairs, too. She fetched her room key from Manheim before heading up the short flight of stairs without any final farewell to her former company. 

She discovered that the upper floor was little more than a loft and had only enough room for two small, boxed in rooms; Minerva’s and her own. So where did that leave Rufio then? Her expression was troubled, brow set to a furrow while she thought, jangling her room key restlessly as she stood in front of the door. Eventually, she let herself in and threw the door shut in an act of frustration. She leaned against it, sighing into her palm as she ran her hand across her face. Saviren’s first thought was dismaying, suspecting that perhaps Rufio had already moved on from this place. Either that or there had been some mistake. Had Lucien’s instructions been faulty? Saviren thought that was entirely unlikely. She had not known Speaker Lachance for very long at all, yet she already had a strong impression that he was not the kind of man to make mistakes like this. He was thorough, experienced. If anyone was at fault, it was likely her. She couldn’t make sense of it, but the thought of disappointing that man became strangely disagreeable. 

Another sigh escaped her as she dropped down onto the bed roll laid out across the hard floor. She had bigger worries than to fuss over the unaccommodating sleeping arrangements, though objection to the idea of laying on the floor may have crossed her mind briefly. She absolutely refused to acknowledge the small prickle of longing for home, however. That was not something she could allow to consume her. Home was nonexistent, in the past, and had to be forgotten. For now, Saviren determined that sleep was the best thing for her. She could forget these troubles for the night and sort everything out tomorrow when she had a fresh start and a renewed mind. 

Despite a lack of comfort, her body and mind were eager for a chance to sleep and recharge. Saviren’s head settled on her pillow, the thin stuffing within just barely enough to minimize the firmness of the floor. It was well enough for the time being and she felt right on the verge of sleep. It was a relief of peace, freedom from her worries. 

A loud voice from the inn’s main floor abruptly shattered the moment when sleep was nearest to taking her. Ripped away, the calm she had felt was gone the instant Minerva began chatting loudly once more. The Redguard must have thought she was doing well to keep quiet, because what Saviren soon realized is that Minerva was talking about her. 

“That Nammu isn’t very friendly at all. She didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to drink. How boring!” 

Saviren turned to her side, glaring at the floorboards under her, as if Minerva would feel her wrath directed straight through to her. 

Manheim’s response was unclear as even a Nord could do a better job of being quieter than the drunken woman. Saviren didn’t truly care what he would have to say about her anyway. All she wanted was to go to bed and forget it all. She nearly yelled out to the others downstairs, just wishing to silence them, but what she heard next gave her pause. 

“She is just like Rufio. Doesn’t want anything to do with anybody. Why do ya think people are like that, Manheim? We’re nice people, why don’t they want to talk to us? Why do ya think that is?”

This time, Saviren leaned down lower to the floor, ears attentive to catch Manheim’s response. She couldn’t believe her luck. A moment ago, she would have cursed Minerva for her wagging tongue, loosened by all that drinking. Now the Redguard was proving to be quite the boon to her mission. 

Manheim answered, voice droning and tired as the hour had become late by now. “Not sure. Ms. Nammu just seems bitter,” 

Saviren grunted at that. The Nord wasn’t wrong, really. She continued listening. 

“But Rufio is different, a bit odd if you ask me. I think he’s hiding from someone. I really do,” he added. Minerva must have looked at him peculiarly. He went on to explain. “He hardly ever comes up from the cellar. He even takes his meals down there. It’s like he is too afraid to show his face. But what do I care? Both of them pay their rent and so long as they continue to, I’ll be satisfied.”

That was where Saviren stopped listening. She had everything she needed to know now. The cellar. So that’s where her mark was, hiding away. Which meant Rufio must already suspect that he was being hunted. But did he know who it was that preyed on him? The Dark Brotherhood itself. The old man had perfect reason to fear showing himself, that was for certain. Any hopes of sleep vanished at this point as a jolt of excitement began to flow through her, keeping her wide awake. She wanted to see him, this Rufio. She wanted to know what he looked like, who he was. Questions, always more questions. The Brotherhood was proving to be a massive source of mysteries and Saviren couldn’t help but be eager. The biggest question presenting itself to her, however, was could she kill for it? Would she kill again for the knowledge of discovery, for the chance at a new beginning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Nammu" is a Dunmeri word translating to "no name". How clever and original, Saviren.


	5. A Monster In The Making

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saviren's true nature begins to awaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So those of you who check in on my Tumblr might have heard about how I lost access to my laptop for a bit, which is why posting this chapter was delayed. I had promised to post a teaser on Tumblr as soon as my laptop was returned to me, however I actually just ended up finishing the chapter so I figured there was no need for that. I'm going to start posting updates/news for this story as well as the new chapters on my Tumblr regularly so you can kind of keep track of me there if you'd like. I'm under the same user, Heiouch.
> 
> Enjoy.

After patiently waiting for the moment she could sneak out from her room, Saviren had made her way directly for the cellar. All of the inn was dark in the absence of the candlelight, having been smothered out entirely after everyone retired for the night. When Saviren came creeping down from the second floor, she relied on touch to guide her when memory alone could not suffice to serve in this unfamiliar place. With her hand held out, the feeling from the rough wood of the walls lead her down the stairs and about the bend into the bar. Around the corner and along its wall, she would be brought straight to the niche where the cellar would be tucked into, nestled under the flight of stairs she had just descended. Saviren was aware of Manheim’s presence in the room, made apparent by the sound of his snuffling breath heaved while he slept behind the check-in counter on a lonely cot. Her progress was thus made slow by careful steps as she took great care to avoid detection. Yet in truth, this was not a mission requiring great stealth. The only thing that could roused the Nord from his sleep would be a noise louder than the snores he produced, while Minerva would likely be out for the remainder of the night and following morning after succumbing to the liquor’s stupor. 

When the wall fell away from her touch as it receded to the formation of an alcove, Saviren crouched and spread her palms across the gritty floor to shuffle forward until her hand brushed over the edge of the hatch and found its handle. With an experimental tug, she tested the door’s weight and found that it was easy to lift, though the old hinges on it ground out the sound of a pitched groan. The abrupt noise sent her heart hammering in panic, the surge of every beat within her chest seeming louder still. Saviren stayed quiet and unmoving, barely breathing as she remained stooped above the cellar’s dark drop off. Manheim’s snoring never once ceased, but the Dunmer refused to move for another minute, maybe more, kept frozen by her paranoia. When she was finally convinced that no one had heard, Saviren proceeded cautiously, shifting her weight until her feet were dangling past the hatch. Blindly, she probed into the concentrated shadows brimming at the threshold of the cellar until her feet touched down upon one of the ladder rungs. Saviren counted six steps down before she ended up on solid stone. 

What had looked like total darkness from above was only false pretense. Although the long corridor of stone stretched out ahead of her was painted with the deep hue of shadows, there was a light at the far end. It was faint, but still contrasting to the inky black of the cellar hall enough to draw her attention to it quickly. It kept her on edge as she continued forward. 

All the way along the chamber, she could hear nothing, though with her heart still racing and her resolve a bit shaken, even an elf could begin to doubt her ears. At the end of the hall, to the left, was an archway of carved stone. There was no door to occlude it, suggesting that the room beyond was originally purposed as nothing more than an extra storage compartment to stash a surplus of supplies, which was likely liquor in the inn’s case. But wine racks had lined the corridor and barrel kegs had been clustered and stacked in other nooks, crannies, and corners where the space was available. When Saviren dared a peek past the archway, she saw that the small stone bay had been renovated into a makeshift bedroom and had been cleared of all the clutter that now crowded the hall. All that remained in the room now was an end table topped with an oil lantern and a bed topped with a man. When she saw him, Saviren immediately ducked back behind the corner, though seconds later she was carefully looking back into the room when no shout or sound of alarm was given. 

The small flame that curled and lapped along the length of blackened wick within the lamp only gave off a dim light. All that was easily seen of the man at first had been his form, yet now as she focused, Saviren could begin to piece together the details that crafted his appearance. He was sleeping and his face was slack of any expression, though deep creases of wrinkles were set into his features. His hair was white and thinning. To put it plainly, he was old. 

Saviren felt her heart rate peak, a quick jolt present within her chest as she looked upon Rufio’s aged face and body. She could not avoid thinking back to the night before, at the old Imperial’s farm. She knew how it felt when aged flesh tore wide and bled beneath a knife and still recalled how an old man’s breath could sound so hush and frail when it was his last. 

She blinked, a welling of silent tears gathering in her eyes. The memories were brash, reminiscence of those sensations vivid. It was wrong that they did not disturb her, the Dunmer knew that much to be true. Her tears were not spent on the old farmer she had killed, but instead on the person she had thought herself to be before her journey away from home began. Perhaps she had always felt a distortion within her, but it had never gripped her so fierce before. Any sense of her old self seemed far away and buried. She knew in that instant that she would do it; she was going to kill this man. Resisting now, after seeing his face, would be impossible. She knew her mark and he was familiar like her first kill. 

Lachance had warned her that repeating an act of death was not always easy, but she suspected now that the Speaker had known her well enough to wager that she was capable of this, even if what she needed was a little push to do it. Rufio had been specifically selected for her, she had no doubt. After Lucien had seen what she had done at the farmhouse, a plan was formed to replicate it. Familiarities were meant to make this easier for her. 

Saviren stared a while longer, musing over the man she had been sent to hunt. Even in rest, Rufio looked to be unsettled. He squirmed somewhat in his sleep, fingers twitching against the blankets while his body would shift within the sheets entangling him. He never looked comfortable or at ease. Saviren thought it must be an agonizing existence to know that death hounded for you, pursuing your steps faster than any other’s. She looked to the lamp at his bedside again. A night light for a grown man, meant to shut out the dark. It reminded her of the moonlight of her first night away from home. She had learned that the light was not protection. She wanted Rufio to know that, too. She wanted him to know that she was coming for him. Before she left, Saviren silently walked into the room, approaching the lamp with its dim little flame. With a delicate puff of breath, she extinguished it in an instant, leaving Rufio delved in darkness while he continued to sleep. And then she turned back to leave the way she came. 

When she returned to her room, Saviren crawled into the bed roll. She expected that there were only a few more hours left until sun rise and she would take the opportunity to get a bit of rest, if her nerves would settle.

\--

She woke well before the others as the sun’s light was just beginning to reach past the horizon. When she had shed the sleeping bag from her form and headed down to the main floor of the inn, only Manheim was there, keeping the quiet of an otherwise empty room at bay with his persistent bellows. Saviren seated herself at the bar, eyeing the Nord wordlessly as he lay on his cot, wondering how long it would take for him to wake up. She wanted breakfast. As she waited, debating on waking her host, the mer began combing through her hair with her fingers, hoping to tame some of the tangles that had formed in the night. She lamented the loss of her hairbrush, abandoned at home in her haste to get out of Skingrad. It really was the little things in life. 

From behind her, there was a sound of a squeaky hinge flexing. Saviren stopped fussing with her hair and turned on her stool, gaze quickly flying toward the cellar door as it was propped open. She watched as a familiar head of thinning hair poked out of the cellar. A pair of brown eyes peered askance at her and Saviren had to wonder what exactly Rufio was thinking when he laid eyes on her. She tried offering a little wave and suddenly the old man was darting back down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole. The hatch slammed shut and Saviren started at the abrupt noise. It was even loud enough to wake Manheim and the Nord snorted, stalling his snores, as he suddenly sat upright in his bed. 

“Wha-? Welcome to the Ill of Inn Omen.” He was beginning to slouch as his words muddled together in a sleepy, slurring way. Eventually, as his head came back down upon the pillow, Saviren was no longer able to understand his mumblings. Soon, they were replaced with a sonorous snoring once more. 

The Dunmer blinked, glancing from Manheim and back to the cellar door. After a few moments passed, the hatch was opening again and this time a small knapsack was tossed up onto the main floor before Rufio came hurrying up the ladder. He collected his bag and hesitantly proceeded forward, coming towards her and the check in counter. Saviren played her part and only smiled sweetly, acting as if she had never before seen this man. But Rufio only refused to make eye contact, gaze directed to the floor. The Dunmer found herself thinking how pathetic he seemed. Something about it made her hate him, yet at the same time she found a certain kind of pleasure from his fear. 

At the counter, Rufio dropped a handful of coins and then quickly turned away, heading right for the door. He left without any word, door shutting behind him with finality. Saviren stared, pulse quickening. She hadn’t anticipated scaring him off so easily, but it looked like Rufio was on the run. Which meant she had to pack her things and leave in a hurry or else risk losing him forever. So much for breakfast. She doubted that Ill Omen would have much of a breakfast selection anyhow. She certainly wouldn’t be getting hot cakes. She’d have to eat on the road when she found the time.

In a rush, she was up the stairs and into her room, gathering everything into her bag haphazardly, shoving to cram clothes and food and a water skin in together. She strapped on her father’s sword along her back and shouldered her pack over it before belting the blade of woe onto her hip. Soon, she would need it. 

It only took her a moment to pack, given that her belongings were so few. Even still, when she opened the door of the inn and stepped out to the woodland trail, there was no sign of Rufio. Saviren stood there baffled, head jerking to the side to look down the road one way, then to the other. The inn sat atop a hill and Saviren could see the road stretching down along both sides of the crest and continuing for miles. Yet from her vantage point, she saw no one traveling the road. How could that old codger have given her the slip so quickly? 

The young mer walked slowly to the main road, stopping when she stood in the center of the path. A quiet curse passed her lips as she stood there, gawking at the vacancy of the surrounding area and the stillness of the land. She could feel the weight of the blade of woe on her hip, hanging there, useless now. She reached to touch its hilt, sighing quietly. The world seemed to sigh with her in that moment as the wind picked up, whispering through the trees. 

It was from the breeze that she heard it; a faint sound carried farther on the wind’s back, proffered to her ears as the gust blew by. It was a noise that crackled and crunched, the snapping of twigs and a rustling of underbrush. She stared toward the woods, eyes surveying the scene of tall trees standing ahead of her. She saw nothing, but the longer she focused on the forest ahead, she became convinced of what she heard. Footsteps through the thicket. Saviren gave it little thought before she passed the treeline, crossing over into the woods quickly in pursuit of the sound. She did her best to keep her own footsteps silent, but she was hastening to catch up. The trees were beginning to thin, becoming further apart to make way for a small glade. In the middle of the clearing was Rufio, bent with both hands placed on his knees as he panted heavily. He looked up when she walked out from the trees, approaching him wordlessly. 

“Oh gods, it was you. You came to my room last night? Why didn’t you just kill me then?” Rufio’s eyes were wide and his voice was shaky. He began to step backwards as she drew closer. 

“It wasn’t a good time,” she explained to him simply. “How long have you known you were being hunted, old man?” 

Rufio shook his head and turned away, beginning to run once more. Saviren found it intriguing, if not plainly amusing. She could already see he wasn’t going to make it far from her. It appeared that he had a bum leg, making his gait awkward and cumbersome. She would outpace him with little effort, so she granted him a head start. But as she watched him try to flee, a thought crossed her mind. It brought a quietly cruel smile to her lips. 

“Do you know _who_ sent me to get you, old man?” She began jogging after him. 

He glanced back at her and she could see the whites of his eyes. “Let me go, leave me be. You could forget you ever saw me..”

“The Dark Brotherhood never forgets.”

That cursed name stopped Rufio dead in his tracks and he quickly turned to face her as she came closing in. Immediately, his hands flew up as he tried to implore her. Just like the old farmer, she thought. “Oh… oh please. Please don’t do this. Don’t kill me.”

Something inside her woke to Rufio’s cowering, responsive to his fear. It felt predatory. “The Dark Brotherhood doesn’t listen to pleas, either.” She reached to pluck the blade of woe from its sheath. It fit pleasantly into her palm and felt sturdy in her hand. The monstrous drive within her left no room for hesitation and the instant she had unsheathed her weapon, her arm was drawn back, ready to lash out and strike down her prey. 

But Rufio’s body hit the ground before she even had the chance to extend her arm and drive her blade into him. Before her, the old man dropped, first to his knees, then onto his side. He lay writhing and gasping, a hand clutching his chest. Saviren’s gaze fell to the forest floor with Rufio, watching him in confusion. His body jerked for a moment more and he gave a dull moan before he went very still. Saviren, too, remained motionless for a while, only staring and saying nothing. When nothing happened, the Dunmer slowly lowered her blade to her side. She knew the hollow expression that Rufio was wearing, she just couldn’t believe it. Death had claimed him before she had the chance to send him there herself. She felt strangely cheated.


	6. Not Quite Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Excellent. Then let us not delay your homecoming any longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this chapter.

She knew he’d be coming, she just didn’t know when. At least she hoped he’d be coming. Saviren wasn’t entirely sure of the technicalities involved with this assassination business. Rufio was dead and Saviren figured that’s what mattered most for their deal, but whether it could really be said that she was the one to kill him was a bit of a gray area. 

Saviren had emerged from the woods with a sullen spirit, leaving Rufio’s body behind, gone untouched and left to rot. She hadn’t dared to tarnish the blade of woe and spill stagnant blood for its first use. 

Along the Green Road, a ways to the north, she had come across another inn called The Faregyl. It was far surpassing of Ill Omen, yet still plain compared to what she had grown accustomed to in her upbringing. It was a standard, middle class inn and nothing more. It would do well enough as she waited in hopes that Lucien would show up, however, and it would keep her off the road for the day. 

The day ran long in the absence of distractions to occupy Saviren’s thoughts. The mellow morning light eventually bled into the bright blue of a noonday sky, which remained clear all the way into the evening. The mer did little more than eat during meal times and sip carefully on wine in between, keeping an eye on the front door for the better part of the day. Though the Faregyl was occupied by a good many more visitors than Ill Omen had been, the other guests provided no great amount of amusement for the restless Dunmer, who was too caught up in her own web of worries to pay them much notice. For those who did approach her, she did not entertain their company for long. Especially the men who sought to strike some idle romance with her; they were sent away quickly. She was scarcely a stranger to the attention of men and often times, she quite enjoyed their antics. But now was not such a time as she still was brooding and volatile after her disappointing encounter with Rufio. 

She had resigned herself to reading one of the books she picked up from the inn’s bookshelves, already six chapters in, as she was a fast reader, when someone claimed the seat across from her at her chosen table. Saviren didn’t have to look up from the words inked into the page she scanned to tell that the person across from her was another man. She gave a quiet sigh, not bothering to spare the guy a glance as she dismissed him. “I’m not interested.” 

“I took Rufio’s death to mean that you were, in fact, interested in our deal.”

Those words -- that voice -- got her attention quickly enough and she looked up from her book, eyes wide. Lucien sat back in the chair across from her, dressed in a simple green shirt and dark pants, and he wore his long hair tied up like the first time they had met. His appearance took her off guard because he looked so completely normal without his robes on or a hood hiding half of his face. She shut her book and stared for a moment, partly due to her surprise. Lucien met her gaze evenly, giving the barest of smiles. 

“I thought you were someone else, I’m so sorry,” Saviren explained. 

“Who else would you be expecting?” Lucien asked with a curious hum, eyes still upon her as he folded his fingers together and set his elbows on the table. 

Her responding scoff was soft. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else, people just keep bothering me.” Her eyes darted to one of the men who had approached her before, now seated at the bar, and Lucien’s gaze followed her’s. Incidentally, the man was also watching them, seeming particularly off-put by Lucien’s presence at her table. He appeared to be a Breton and his brow was deeply furrowed from the miffed expression he wore while watching them. 

Lucien made no comment about the situation, which she was glad for, though his following words were not what she expected to hear from him. “Do you drink?” When she delayed to respond, unwithholding of a curious expression, he offered an explanation simply. “We may as well discuss our business over a chalice.” 

Upon Saviren’s consenting nod, Lucien rose and left for the bar, off to the far side of the inn. He came to stand beside the Breton fellow. As he passed on an order to a server, setting out a stack of septims on the counter to pay, Lucien never bothered looking to the man at his side, but the other man had his full attention on Lucien. He looked every bit as spiteful as his words would suggest while he gripped his bottle of ale until his knuckles blanched. “Did she sell herself to you for the paltry sum that those drinks cost you, or is it your only chance to bed her after she’s been liquored up?” 

Lucien’s expression never varied, nor did his gaze wander over to the man. He did exchange a quick response with him, however. “I’ve made no mission of bringing her to my bed. I know her to be of more value than a mere offering of flesh.”

Though Lucien spoke softly and simply, the Breton spoke loud enough to disturb those around them. “Ha! Those elvish types are known for nothing better! But if it’s no consequence to you, you won’t mind if I am the one to devour her.” Both men received a few uncertain looks from other guests, but quickly after, all eyes looked away purposefully as if to simply ignore the awkward situation developing. 

Lucien’s riposte came quick and sharp, made to cut as good as any blade. “I believe she already made her disinterest in you clear. I find it a great mystery, however, that she could ever resist your charms.” 

A hand clasped ahold of Lucien’s shoulder then, and the Breton man slowly rose from his barstool to stand as Lucien was. Even still, he was beneath Lucien’s height but the difference was slight enough that they could meet each other’s gaze levelly when Lucien did finally turn to look at the man. Lucien wore a slight smirk, yet the longer he gazed at the man, his lips upturned until it could almost be considered a smile. It was not an expression of kindness, however, as the warmth that would come with a smile never touched his eyes. They were set to darkness, sternly glaring at the man as they both remained locked in tension for the moment. 

A small Khajiit woman approached them from behind the bar counter, bringing two drinks which she placed before Lucien, giving a small hiss as she regarded both men. “Do not bring fights into this one’s inn or you will both be thrown out.” 

Lucien was first of the pair to speak, though he did not immediately acknowledge the Khajiit. His words were addressed to the Breton instead. “Perhaps you should give up the drink. It’s influence on you is shameful. It will cut your life short, too.” His attention then shifted to the woman behind the bar, and to her he offered a slight bow of his head before he gathered his drinks and turned away, brushing off the Breton’s hand as he walked off. 

The Breton only sneered and then bitterly downed the rest of his ale. 

As Lucien returned to Saviren and their secluded little table in the corner of the room, Saviren’s rose gaze was set curiously upon him, eyes wide and a touch concerned. She accepted the drink handed to her but did not bring the cup to her lips yet. Instead she waited until Lucien was seated and leaned in closer to him from across the table, whispering. “What did that man say to you?” 

Lucien prioritized his drink first, taking a sip before shaking his head. “Nothing worth wasting breath to repeat. Now to the more important matters at hand, let us discuss our deal. Rufio now lies dead.” And just like that, Lucien was again in control of their conversation. 

This time, it was Saviren who decided to first attend to her drink, taking a sip. Whatever it was Lucien had ordered, it was good and strong. The taste of it burned, yet soon mellowed on her tongue and touched pleasantly on her palate. When she set down the drink, her arms crossed over her chest and she leaned back in her chair. “He does.” She hesitated to offer more and Lucien simply watched her. When she looked back into the Imperial’s eyes, Saviren internally cursed. He already knew. “But not directly by my hand,” she offered in admittance. 

Lucien nodded, yet gave her silence so that she may continue. 

“After I tracked him down, I discovered that he was taking great care to remain hidden from the outside world. He knew he was being hunted.” She paused, hesitant to admit the next part. “I only meant to toy with him a bit, just for a little laugh. I left him a clue that he had been found and he went on the run -- but I didn’t let him get away,” she defended. “I followed him and, well, it was apparently too much for a fragile old heart to bear. Damn him, he died before I had the chance to strike.” Anger crossed her features as she explained the last detail of her recap of the event. She raised her glass and drank again in order to hide her grimace. She watched Lucien carefully. 

The Imperial’s brow arched. “So you scared the man to death.” Was it amusement that made his voice lilt so? “You took some foolish risks, but the job was still completed, so regardless, my offer still stands. As a Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, I directly oversee a particular group of family members. I welcome you to my family, Saviren. From them, you will receive training and, in time, you may take on official contracts. You will learn to be a true killer, to be one of our very own. Do you still accept?”

Any sensible person would hear those words and fear what was to come. Certainly, they would not freely accept such a fate. But Saviren was beginning to figure herself out, realizing that she was not normal as those sensible people were. Perhaps she was a touch afraid, and perhaps, too, that was part of the fun. Though she did hesitate, it only took a brief minute before she gave a nod. “I do accept it.”

Lucien showed her a genuine smile, clearly pleased by the answer. “Excellent. Then let us not delay your homecoming any longer.” He rose and took up his drink, finishing what little remained in his glass before gesturing towards the door. “There is more to discuss, but we may do so during our travels.” 

Saviren blinked, straightening in her chair and glancing toward the window. The day was beginning to relinquish its light to the night that follows. “Now?” she questioned. Briefly she thought back to her first night on the open road, where the wolves had nearly claimed her. She didn’t care to repeat the experience and remained tentative for that reason. 

“Yes, now.” Lucien’s voice was harsher than it had been before, laced with an assertion that left little room for argument. 

The Dunmer tapped her fingers on the table before taking her glass and downing the rest of her drink as well, eyes watering slightly from the burn. But she got up to her feet and obediently followed her Speaker to the exit. Just as Lucien opened the door and the surge of outside air came breezing inward, there was a strange series of sounds behind them that drew her attention back toward the inn as they were stepping out. When she looked back, she saw the Breton man sprawled out on his hands and knees on the floor, his barstool toppled over beside him. He retched violently, spilling his stomach’s contents onto the ground as others around him shouted in surprise and disgust. Then the man collapsed, face pressing into his own vomit. There was little movement from him after that. Saviren stared in surprise. A gentle touch to her shoulder reeled her mind back into focus, however, and she looked to Lucien. His arm was held out behind her, his touch grounding her in the moment. Once he had her attention, he shepherded her onwards, closing the door to leave the scene behind them. 

“Have you a horse?” Lucien casually asked, never stopping to look back and see if they were being followed. 

Saviren only shook her head, staring at him. 

“Then you will have to ride with me.” His hand lifted from her shoulder and he placed two fingers to his lips, whistling as they continued to walk down toward the main road. 

Saviren looked around expectantly. She had seen no horses hitched or corralled in front of the inn, but Lucien’s call did not go unanswered. From the forest ahead emerged a steed, saddled and bridled, ready for a rider. The horse was tall and built strong with muscles that rippled noticeably beneath its dark hide. Every inch of it was black as shadow, showing no other color anywhere except for its eyes. They were red, deeper in color than any fire’s hot flame. It looked unnatural, simply impossible that such a creature could exist. Saviren stopped as Lucien continued toward the animal, which came trotting to meet with him. Lucien’s hand extended toward the horse in greeting and the horse readily nuzzled the man’s palm, nostrils flaring. The Imperial pet gently at the velvet soft nose before turning to look back at Saviren. 

“Come along.” 

The steed’s head laid over Lucien’s shoulder now as its red eyes fell upon her. Saviren didn’t budge. “What in Oblivion is that? That’s not even a horse!” she called from her distant position.

Lucien’s brow furrowed and he gave his horse a pat. “Do not insult Shadowmere, Saviren. She will take personal offence.” Strangely enough, the mare actually gave a shrill neigh and tossed her head in Saviren’s direction, ears angled back as her red eyes bore into the Dunmer’s. 

Since Saviren would not approach, Lucien grabbed the reigns of his horse and lead her over to where the Dark Elf stood. “We don’t have time for this,” he reprimanded. “I’ll help you onto her back, we need to be leaving now.” 

It felt awkward getting into the saddle. Saviren had never ridden a horse before. Though her family had owned one, its only purpose had been to pull their carriage when they had reason to travel outside of Skingrad. Now she found herself seated atop one of the fiercest steeds, looking as if it had come straight from Oblivion. The Dark Elf clung to the saddle as Lucien mounted, causing it to shift. Her Speaker sat himself behind her, arms reaching under her’s to access the reigns. 

The door to the inn opened and someone shouted at them, but Saviren didn’t bother looking. Her attention was focused on the head of the black mare before her. 

When Lucien spoke, she could feel the vibration of his voice from his chest, pressed against her back. “Hold on,” was all he offered her before Shadowmere was spurred into an immediate gallop. 

Saviren was thrown back from the force of acceleration, but she couldn’t budge much with Lucien behind her. He sat confidently in the saddle, secure in his seat and kept her upright, too. This didn’t keep Saviren from clutching onto the saddle horn with a grip solid as a vice though. She simply shut her eyes to avoid becoming light headed as the surrounding scenery blended into one blurring mass of streaked colors. The wind in her ears eliminated much of the noise around them, but she could still hear the rhythm of Shadowmere’s hooves pounding against the ground. 

It felt like forever before Lucien pulled back on the reigns and allowed Shadowmere to slow. When they were at a relaxed gait, Saviren opened her eyes to look around. To their left was Lake Rumare and the great walls and spire of the Imperial City. She had been there many times, but the white stone metropolis remained ever the spectacle to see, even from afar. They walked along the trail at ease now, and Saviren allowed herself to relax fractionally. 

“We are headed for Cheydinhal,” Lucien informed her, now that they had the moment to speak properly. “There is a sanctuary there where my group resides. Other sanctuaries are located in different cities across Cyrodiil, but you will belong only to my sector. They are already expecting your arrival.”

She could not describe the feeling of belonging which those words brought to her. Saviren smiled, though Lucien would not be able to see it, and then gave an understanding nod. “I look forward to meeting them. What is expected of me now?”

“You are expected to learn,” Lucien stated plainly. “As of now, you possess the ardor to live as we do, but not yet the skill or discipline. It will come to you in time, but much will be demanded of you during your training. Our initiates devote years to learning and you will be no exception. Don’t fret,” Lucien chided as if he sensed Saviren’s hint of disappointment. There was no sternness to be heard in his voice though. “You will be allowed to take on minor contracts during the years of your training. Your thirst of bloodshed will not go unsated, I assure you.” 

As Lucien continued to explain to her how things would proceed hereafter, the city of Cheydinhal began to emerge into view. Distant turrets took form and shape as looming shadows in the darkening evening, though torchlight illuminated the great archway of the entrance gates. Saviren sat straighter in the saddle, craning to look down into the valley where the city lay. They came to stand perched upon the hilltop rising above the dale and from this vantage point, Saviren could just begin to see the rooftops of houses and the gothic steeple of Cheydinhal’s grand chapel from over the wall. And it was here on the path that Lucien brought Shadowmere to a stop. 

“I regret that I must leave you here, Saviren, as I have other business to attend to before the night is through. Your way is not far now, though.” Lucien dismounted easily and stood with a hand offered to her, in order to help her down. 

The Dunmer grasped fearfully to the saddle when it first shifted, but relaxed a moment later when she was able to take Lucien’s hand and return to having two feet on the ground where they belonged. She moved stiffly, however, left sore from her time in the saddle, while Lucien moved unphased. When he pulled himself back up onto his horse, he remained neatly poised and well composed, just as she had always known him to be. 

Lucien continued. “Once you’ve entered the city, seek out the abandoned house toward the eastern wall. Enter and make your way to the basement. There, you will find a black door. You will be asked a question. Answer thusly: ‘Sanguine, my Brother’ and you will gain entrance to our sanctuary. There, your new family awaits you.”

Saviren listened carefully, as she always would when Lucien was the one to speak, and then she thanked him before his departure. Once he had gone, giving his final farewell to her, Saviren continued as instructed, seeking out the house and finding what Lucien had called a black door. The door itself was not black in color, but rather in nature of its design. Carved into the surface was a macabre depiction of a skull marked by the imprint of a hand. Further down, forms of a woman and five small children were etched. In the woman’s hand, a knife was raised. 

As Saviren drew near, light began to emanate from the door and a sound that mimicked the intake of breath could faintly be heard. She stopped and stared briefly, remaining quiet in her uncertainty. Her silence was undone when a question was asked of her. 

“What is the color of night?”

“Sanguine, my Brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien may be a brutal, evil, assassin cultist, but dammit, he's a gentleman and you cannot convince me otherwise. 
> 
> Lucien arrives at the Faregyl Inn.  
> Saviren's honor: defended  
> Poison: administered  
> Douchebag: deceased
> 
> Lucien casually vacates the premises 
> 
> (Is this how you meme?)


	7. Welcome To The Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to meet the rest of the family. They certainly are different from Saviren's old kin, but different, she thinks, she quite likes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever. Forgive me. Thank you for all of your support.

Stepping through the black door was like crossing over into another realm. While the basement of the abandoned house was dark, drab and barren of much else other than the tattered silk of cobwebs, the area beyond the door was lavishly furnished and well lit. Pillars of stone upheld the roof above where lanterns hung from and candelabras were scattered about to keep the far corners of the room illuminated. Each of the pillars was bedecked with long tapestries depicting a black handprint and below her feet, fine rugs were laid out. Saviren stepped in and the door shut on its own behind her. 

It appeared that the common room was empty and Saviren advanced slowly toward the center of the room, feeling a bit out of place. She had no idea where to go or who to talk to. Lucien had said the people of this sanctuary were expecting her, but it remained a touch unnerving to be entering the domain of an assassin guild unaccompanied and unannounced. 

“Hello?” she called out gingerly. 

She thought she heard footsteps coming her way, but some of the pillars obscured her view so she walked toward the sound. She had not anticipated coming to meet with a skeleton, but here one was. It stood upright and, all the more to her terror, was wielding a sword in its bony hand. Saviren startled easily at the sight of the skull’s face, grim and hollow with the look of death. She shouted in surprised and retreated back in hurried paces. The skeleton only idled where it stood, staring at her. That was assuming it could even see from its bare, sunken sockets. She raised a hand and moved it back and forth experimentally and the skeleton turned its skull back and forth to follow the motion. This didn’t help to settle her nerves. Her hand instinctively dropped to the blade of woe and only when she could grasp the hilt in her hand did she feel a bit better. 

“It won’t hurt you, it can sense that you’re one of us,” said a soft voice. 

This time, Saviren hadn’t heard any footsteps at all to announce the arrival of new company. Again, she jumped, jolted by the shock of another surprise. When she turned to see where the voice had come from, her gaze fell upon a man. He was considerably tall and his brown hair was long and tied up, kept back from his face which was strikingly pale. It was his pallid complexion that made his red eyes all the more noticeable. It was an unnatural color, considering his race, as he looked to be either Breton or Imperial. 

Saviren must have looked anxious still because the man shook his head. “Do not let my appearance unnerve you, I mean you no harm either. I apologize for sneaking up on you. If I may,” he approached her, offering his hand to her once he was close. It was then that Saviren could make out the peaks of sharp fangs behind his lips when he spoke again. “I am Vicente Valtieri. And yes, I am a vampire, but I do not turn my hunger upon my family. You must be Saviren Althanllin, yes? Our newest family member. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

She nodded, cautiously taking his hand into her own. His fingers were slender and the skin was stretched thin over his knuckles. He felt cold to the touch. She had never met a vampire before. At least she didn’t think she had. 

“We have all been expecting you. You can find most of the others in the living quarters,” Vicente made a gesture towards a large door on the far side of the room. “They will be turning in for the night, I imagine, but they are all eager to meet you. However, you should first seek out Ocheeva, the mistress of our sanctuary. She can fill you in on everything you need to know and answer all your questions. Her office is down that hall. My room is also down that way, should you need to find me during the day.” Again, he directed her and gave a smile that revealed his fangs all the more. Still, it was a smile of kindness. 

Saviren tried to return the smile, if only meekly. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I would gladly stay to assist you myself, but as a creature of the night, I must do my dealings while the sun hides its face.”

Saviren nodded a bit too quickly. “Alright, it was so good to meet you, Mr. Valtieri.” 

“Vicente will work perfectly fine now that we are family. Have a good night, Saviren.” 

When Vicente had gone, Saviren stayed where she was a moment longer, watching the skeleton again. “It was, uh, good to meet you, too…” The skeleton made no indication of understanding and simply began roaming the sanctuary once more. 

Saviren then made her way to find Ocheeva, heading down the hallway that Vicente had pointed out. When she came across the door to the office, she knocked politely and waited for permission to enter. A rasping voice called out and invited her in. Saviren entered and saw an Argonian woman seated at a desk with a map laid out before her. She had pretty pastel scales of light green, purple, and pink. Stunted horns protruded from her head and were adorned by a simple cloth head dress that hung from golden rings. The Argonian’s eyes were orange and quick to assess her as she walked into the office. They lit up with recognition immediately when their gaze settled on her, even though Saviren and her had never before met. 

“You must be our new and very dear sister Saviren,” Ocheeva crooned. “Lucien has told us much about you.”

It would take Saviren some time to grow accustomed to all the sentiment and attention she was receiving here. They really were treating her like family and the Dunmer wasn’t used to that kind of kinship. She smiled and nodded a bit awkwardly. “That’s me. And you are Ocheeva, right? I met Vicente on my way in and he said I should come see you..” 

“Marvelous, I’m so glad you have come. What a pleasure it is to meet you now. Please, sit.” 

Saviren settled in the chair across from Ocheeva, placed before her desk. 

After she was seated, Ocheeva continued. “You must have many questions and there is much to fill you in on. As a new initiate, there is a long road ahead of you. First will come your introduction to training. You must be assessed to find what your strengths and weaknesses are. From there, you can begin learning all the skills you will need. Vicente will be the one who works with you the most, as it is his job to tutor our newest members. We have one other initiate and I imagine you two will get along well while you train together. Her name is Antoinetta and she’s been with us for nearly a year now.” 

Saviren listened, absorbing everything Ocheeva had to tell her. The idea of a year’s worth of training -- perhaps more -- made her a bit apprehensive. She wasn’t entirely patient. But she supposed that would also be a skill demanded of her and something she would need to quickly learn. Saviren nodded every so often so that Ocheeva would know she was following along as the Argonian informed her. 

“At the end of your training, you will be tasked with an official contract, one that will be carefully selected for you personally to act as a final assessment of sorts. Once you prove yourself with this ceremonial kill, you may then accept the mark of Sithis -- a sacred brand that will forever identify you to us and the Dread Father.” 

Saviren’s eyes widened and she sat forward. “A brand? You mean like searing flesh with hot iron? That kind of brand?” 

Ocheeva chuckled at this, genuinely amused but not lacking a touch of empathy when she replied. “A scary thought, I know. I was also tentative about the idea when I first joined the Brotherhood. But the mark is small, meant to be discrete, and the pain of it is fleeting in the end. It is considered an honor among us all, and I am sure you will one day see it as thus. It is expected of all our members, as it is our means of identification to other families outside our own sanctuary while it is also something easily hidden from the eyes of outsiders. Secrecy is an assassin’s greatest ally, after all.” 

Saviren remained unsure about the idea of the brand. While she did feel content to be considered family to the Brotherhood and she had decided this was the life she was willing to commit herself to, she still knew very little of Sithis and why the Dark Brotherhood was called to serve him; why their devotion was so strong. 

Saviren had always been skeptical of any form of religion. Her family had been of mixed creed. They partially worshiped the Divines after having been converted by the persistent people of faith in Cyrodiil when her ancestors had first immigrated from Morrowind. Yet they also tried to remain true to the Tribunal deities of their homeland. Saviren, however, hadn’t ever followed any of the Divines and remained forever apathetic toward them. She also harbored little interest for the Tribunal. Her intrigue had always lay with the Daedric princes Azura, Boethiah, and especially Mephala, which she read about from old books detailing Dunmeri faith before the ascension of the Tribune church. Even still, she had never considered herself to be a Daedra worshipper and did not pay them any homage -- she merely found them fascinating. 

“Here,” Ocheeva offered, after seeing Saviren’s persisting doubt. “I took my mark upon my shoulder. See?” She had lifted the short sleeve of the tunic she wore to reveal where her scales had been burned. The shape was that of a hand, which Saviren was beginning to recognize as the Brotherhood’s recurring theme. It was only a small mark, no larger than a septim coin, and it was clear that the scar was old but the scales that had been seared remained discolored and misshapen by the permanent imprint. “It’s just a small thing, but its symbolic importance is profound to us. In time, you will see it as an honor, of this I have no doubt.” Ocheeva gave the Argonian equivalent to a smile, flashing her teeth. 

Saviren only nodded slightly and then decided it was best to switch the subject now. “When do I begin my training?” 

“The sooner the better,” Ocheeva answered, still chipper, not seeming to mind the change in topic. “Vicente likes to start our initiates off as quickly as possible. You should speak with him in the morning. For now, however, you are free to get settled in. There is a bed and storage chest for you in our living quarters. You’ll find the rest of our members there by now, so make sure to introduce yourself. They have been eagerly awaiting your arrival. Thank you for stopping by, Saviren.” 

The Dunmer got up from her seat and thanked Ocheeva for speaking with her in return before heading out of the Argonian’s office. She headed for the living quarters -- a spacious room with a short, curving hallway preceding it and plenty of beds and tables -- and found it to be occupied by five others. There was a young blonde girl, an aged Bosmer woman, another Argonian whose looks were of striking resemblance to Ocheeva’s, an Orsimer man, a and skeptical looking Khajiit. 

All heads turned toward her when she arrived. It was quiet for a minute. Saviren momentarily fidgeted under all the attention. “Hello, I’m--”

“Saviren!” The excitable shriek of the young blonde woman was Saviren’s only warning before she was rushed at. She found herself wrapped up in strong arms; the girl’s power really was surprising. Saviren gasped and gaped at the shorter woman, confused and a bit off put by the over abundant enthusiasm. It was not in her nature to be very… clingy. And the girl certainly did cling. Saviren wasn’t sure if she was ever going to let go. “We’ve been waiting for you, we’ve heard so much about you, and I can’t believe you’re finally here and we get to have a new sister. It’s just all so exciting!” 

Before Saviren had the chance to speak or act, the woman was pulling back only to seize her hand, chatting away some more. “I’m Antoinetta. I was the newest before you came along. Let me introduce you to everyone!” Antoinetta turned, never releasing Saviren’s hand, and tried to pull the Dunmer forward. 

This was where Saviren drew the line. Refusing to go a step further, Saviren yanked out of the girl’s strong hold. “I am perfectly capable of walking without a guide holding my hand, thank you.” Only after she was free did Saviren step forward, brushing herself off and turning up her chin slightly. She wore the pride of elves well, managing to grasp still to her dignity despite the blush that was creeping up noticeably across her high cheek bones. 

Antoinetta looked as though her heart had just been dashed to pieces, wearing the most dismal pout Saviren had ever seen. She nearly felt bad for it. But then suddenly there was laughter from everyone else in the room. Saviren’s face flushed deeper and any pity she might have had for Antoinetta was erased. 

“You’ll have to excuse Antoinetta, she’s an excitable child.” said the female wood elf as she stepped lightly towards them. 

“I’m not a child though!” Antoinetta defended, huffing slightly. 

The Bosmer just laughed jovially. “When you live to be one hundred and eleven years old, then you can say to me you are no child. Until then, you’ll have to accept that you are just the baby of the family now.”

Saviren looked back and forth between the Bosmer and the Breton as they had this exchange. She felt a bit more relaxed now that some of the attention was taken off of her. 

Antoinetta chimed back at the much older woman. “That’s not fair, Telaendril! Just because you’re an elf and get to live to be _ancient_ doesn’t mean you can baby me forever.” Antoinetta pointed at Telaendril, wagging her finger, and added, “And I wasn’t the youngest of this family until Mathieu transferred sanctuaries. He’s even three years younger than me but you never treated him like a child.” 

There was a soft hiss before another voice joined the conversation. “That’s because Mathieu never acted childishly like you, Antoinetta.” It was the Khajiit sitting in the corner that had spoken. When Saviren turned to look at him, he sneered, ears pulling back. “And what are you looking at? From what I hear, you’re nothing but some princess from Skingrad; worse than a child.” 

Saviren was stunned by the unexpected hostility and stared, eyes wide. Indignant, she opened her mouth to speak up for herself, but another’s voice cut off her own. 

“M’raaj, how cruel of you to treat dear Antoinetta and our newest sister so poorly. Are we not a family here? We are meant to be celebrating our newest arrival.” Saviren’s glare had never departed from the Khajiit but now, as she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder, she turned to look at the male Argonian that had spoken, joining Telaendril and Antoinetta to stand near her. His forked tongue flicked from his mouth as he looked at her and she flinched back in surprise. “Oh,” the Argonian said as he lifted his hand from her shoulder to cover his own mouth. He gave a nervous chuckle. “Pardon me, it’s how I get to know new people. I meant no offence. Ocheeva keeps telling me to be more mindful of my tongue since we aren’t in Black Marsh anymore.”

Saviren relaxed a bit, almost amused by the Argonian’s honesty. She gave a slight smile. “No offence was taken.” She leaned in slightly, whispering. “Thank you.” 

The Argonian smiled back, baring all his sharp teeth amiably. “Of course. I’m Teinaava, Ocheeva’s brother. It is nice to meet you, Saviren. Welcome.” 

The others seemed willing to take after Teinaava’s initiative and began acquainting themselves kindly to Saviren. She learned that the orc man was named Gogron gro-Bolmog, quite the mouthful, but he offered that she may simply stick to calling him Gogron for short. Even Telaendril and Antoinetta reintroduced themselves. Saviren was grateful when Antoinetta settled for a simple handshake this time around. Only the Khajiit remained uninvolved with the gathering. 

“And the one with a knot in his tail over there is M’raaj-Dar,” said Gogron, grinning crookedly due to his lower tusks. 

The Khajiit slammed closed the book he had been reading and stood from his chair. Saviren could see his tail twitching irritably when he walked toward the cluster of beds, muttering. “By Sithis, I think I’m the only one that takes being in the Brotherhood seriously anymore.” He laid down in his bed with his back pointedly turned toward the rest of them and fell into stubborn silence for the rest of the night. 

To Saviren’s surprise, it was Antoinetta that spoke in defense of the Khajiit, as she had been the first to fall victim to the cat’s fury. “M’raaj may be a bit… grumpy,” she whispered the word, “but he really does have a heart for this family. You just have to give him some time to warm up to you. Sometimes he’s sweet. I’ve even heard him purring before!” 

Saviren snorted at that, laughter deriving from the sound. M’raaj-Dar may not have responded to Antoinetta’s claim, but Saviren did notice how the Khajiit’s tail was lashing against his mattress in the background. 

After the introductions, all the drama died down a bit. Saviren was shown where she could place her things and given a bed to call her own. When all were settled and they had each retreated to a bed, mild and aimless chatter floated easily around the room. It was all just small talk, really, but it allowed everyone to get to know her and she learned a few interesting things about the others in turn. 

Teinaava and his sister were both what was called a Shadowscale, Saviren learned, and had been raised within the Brotherhood’s ranks since they were hatched. Lucien had played a role in raising them, claiming them for the Cheydinhal family and training them well before he had been made Speaker. 

Gogron had come to the Brotherhood after they had taken keen interest in the skills he displayed as a champion of the Imperial City arena. They offered him a life of greater reward if he would kill for them instead. Gogron had readily accepted. 

Antoinetta had come from a life of crude poverty, living on the streets. She said she was barely able to hang on and had almost given up before Lucien found her and accepted her into the family. In return for the Speaker’s kindness, Antoinetta had readily given all her devotion to following him and the way of the Brotherhood. Despite the dreary theme of her story, however, Antoinetta always remained surprisingly cheery while recounting the tale. Her admiration for Lucien was made clear, and her words depicted him like a hero of sorts. She called him her savior. 

But it was Telaendril’s story that Saviren liked best. The Bosmer had once been hunted by the Dark Brotherhood before she was considered family. Her own father had wished for her death and made a deal with the Brotherhood in order to ensure her death. Lucien had been the one sent to collect her bounty, yet, miraculously, the Bosmer evaded Lucien. After escaping, Telaendril first sought vengeance and slayed her father as retribution for the attempt made on her life. The night of her father’s death, Lucien tracked her down once more, but this time he was not sent to kill her, but to recruit her instead. 

Saviren found great amusement from this story. “Tell me, how did you manage to escape from Lucien of all people?” Saviren asked, amazed. She just simply couldn’t imagine it to be true. Perhaps she already held a bit of bias for their Speaker. Admiration, she surmised it was, similar to Antoinetta’s.

Telaendril smiled and bowed her head in false modesty, waving a hand as if she was going to simply dismiss the topic. It didn’t take but a moment longer, however, for the elf to begin explaining, looking discretely proud. “Well even our Speaker was not _always_ the skilled assassin we know him to be today. He was quite young at the time and I have the experience that comes from more than a century of living and surviving. His was not the first attempt made on my life, I can tell you that. Perhaps it won’t be the last, either.” She laughed brightly at this. 

Saviren remembered smiling and laughing, feeling content and at ease just before she drifted off to sleep that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has questions about the story or updates or just want to talk about TES/The Dark Brotherhood in general, feel free to message me on Tumblr. I'm Heiouch there, as well.
> 
> *Edit: I forgot to add that in this story, the Dark Brotherhood will not have an armor set unique to them. To me, it just seems foolish for an assassin to flaunt special armor that is only obtained through their guild. It's like just handing the guard's your identity as a killer. So that's why I introduced the idea of a brand. Not only is it a permanent way of identifying yourself discretely to your people and easily kept hidden from outsiders' unknowing eyes, but it also just seemed fitting for a group as cultic as the Dark Brotherhood is. They are hardcore Sithis worshipers.


End file.
